Seven millions stand Emaciate, in that ancient Delta-land:- We here, full-charged with our own maimed and dead, And coiled in throbbing conflicts slow and sore, Can poorly soothe these ails unmerited Of souls forlorn upon the facing shore! – Where naked, gaunt, in endless band on band Seven millions stand.

No man can say To your great country that, with scant delay, You must, perforce, ease them in their loud need: We know that nearer first your duty lies; But–is it much to ask that you let plead Your lovingkindness with you–wooing-wise – Albeit that aught you owe, and must repay, No man can say?